Call Me Your Little Girl
by Sunday2am
Summary: She's dressed like a porn star, but she's too young to let strange men mess with her innocence in public bathrooms. She does it anyway. Until this strange man buys her Wendy's instead. He calls her a kid, a mess with blue hair, sexually disturbed, too young for him. She loves him anyway-besides, he buys her cherry coke and cute dresses.
1. Her Daisy Haze

_Dedicated to P. S., this is for you. Oh how unbelievably cocky you would get if you realized I wrote an entire book on you._

Part 1

I. Her Daisy Haze

He smells like a French afternoon.

Peach trees, lemonade with ice, orange marmalade.

Her fist-sized adolescent heart instantly thumps against her ribcage. He has the eyes of Kyle's, cheekbones of Adam's, and his hair-his hair is exceptional, like Louis Garrel's.

"I'm not your charity case," she says quietly, sipping on her diet coke. "I've got plenty of money on myself."

"I know that," he says. "But you do seem to be loving your fries."

Wordlessly, she sticks the last of her french fries in her mouth, chewing attentively, thinking, thinking…

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How come you didn't want to fuck me?"

She stirs the drink carelessly with the straw, not bothering to look at his face.

"Is that what you wanted?"

"Why else would I have asked you to show me where the restroom is?"

"You can't possibly be more than seventeen."

"You only say that because I'm short."

"Well, are you? Over seventeen?"

She shakes her head, burying her cheek deep into the flesh of her palm, her elbow pressing on the table. She had asked him if he could take her to the restroom, he bought her Wendy's instead in the food court. She usually doesn't appreciate surprises much, but she could bear with this one, since she was starving.

And her new obsession-this sharply dressed stranger, with dark hair, French accent, German eyes, Italian colors, and Mediterranean scent. Her daisy haze will be the end of her.

"Something wrong?" the corner of his mouth twitches up slightly, leaving a small crease by.

She smiles right back at him, and her tempting eyes lock with his arrogant ones.

And this is who she is today. Twenty-nine-percent a child, thirty-four-percent a seductress, and thirty-five-percent a rebel. Nobody knows where the unclaimed two-percent lies in, not even herself.

"Absolutely nothing. The fries were just perfect as well as the coke."

"Did you really want me to take you the restroom?"

She wipes her mouth with a napkin and takes a small mirror and a lipstick out from her jean pocket. (she doesn't own a purse, or doesn't carry it around). The lipstick is bright red like cherries in the winter, which she rolls up and presses against her lips.

"Why not?" she says, her eyes on the tiny faded mirror.

His eyes glances at her childishly colored lips, once, twice.

"You do this often?"

"Whenever I'm bored."

"And how often are you bored?"

She looks up to him with wide doe eyes, mascara faintly smudged down to the bottom of her eyes. She knows she looks like a child porn star-she, in fact, adores the look. Believes it suits her, at least for today, Friday, under the dazzling sunshine and factory smokes.

"I'm bored always," she says.

He has a tiger laughter, she notices, amused by the prey, but utterly silent. Lingering, observing, always in the back, eight feet apart, too far, too close.

"And even now?"

"Not now. But possibly soon enough. People bore me endlessly. One after another."

And she knows she bores herself.

"Or maybe they simply disappoint you," he says.

"I don't get disappointed," her eyes dart up to the ceiling with fake sky painted on it. "It's either that, or everyone disappoints me, so it's no surprise."

"Broken heart?" he muses.

Her eyes are back on his, eyebrows furrowing slightly, but the curve of her nose proud.

"Nobody breaks my heart," the child dressed like a porn star says.

"And what about me?" his voice is dragged out, lazy, an aristocratic tiger basking in the sun. "Could I break yours?"

"No. But you can do anything if you want it enough."

"Do I want to break your heart? We've only just met," he chuckles-the tiger wakes up-and leans slightly backwards.

"Maybe," she says. "But I only ever fall for strangers."

"And have you? Fallen for me already?"

"No," she sips on her drink, her eyes blinking calmly, lips unsmiling but unfazed. "And even if I had, it wouldn't mean a thing. But you must know that already. What do you see me as?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do I look like to you? Some fourteen year old kid with daddy issues with attention-seeking tendencies and sexual disturbance?"

"Well, are you?"

She smiles through the straw. He begins wiping the table with a napkin, eyes on the plastic surface.

"I'm not fourteen."

She can see him hiding his slow smile as his wiping slowly comes to a stop, his hand motionless on the table, the fabric clutched in his fist.

"Then how old are you?" he asks.

"How is that important?"

"It's not," he says, looking up at her. "But I am curious to know."

"Well, you can't always get what you want," she says, then adds after two seconds. "Unless you want it enough, of course."

"And what do I want?" he asks.

"You tell me."

She slips the napkin out of his grasp with her fairy fingers of both hands, one hand throwing it away to a near trashcan, another staying wrapped around his cautiously.

"Take me to the restroom," she laces the words carefully in her soft exhale.

He has the most elegantly curved eyelids, his dark eyelashes fitted perfectly along the line. His dark complexion clashes against his pale cheeks which reminds her of that one harsh night of December two years back.

"The restroom here is filthy, and besides, I'm not sexually attracted to kids. That's called pedophilia."

And her? She's a summer day, an erratic baby whose hair color changes with her every mood.

"Try me. I'm exceptional. And narcissistic like that."

"How so?"

"Because I am."

The little girl slowly lifts his hand around hers, her index finger sliding down his thumb softly. The tiger divine doesn't bother to pull away as her bottom lip touches the tip. Looking straight into his eyes through her eyelashes, her bright red lips wrap around the finger.

His dark eyes are unwavering as he guides his thumb back out of her mouth and drags it firmly down her bottom lip.

"Exceptional," she says. "I was born like that."

"Prove it."

"I can't unless you let me. But see that guy over there?" she points behind the popcorn stand in the small cinema in the corner. "Jason, he makes popcorns every Saturday afternoon, around this time. He told me I suck cock like an angel on ecstasy."

"Jesus," he leans back and stretches his back. "Calm down."

"Why? Am I disturbing you?"

"Slightly," he says. "But I've seen more than you have."

"You haven't seen anything until you know how my thighs feel against your palm. Or what my hair smells like, or what my pussy tastes like."

He reaches his hand over across the table and softly touches the back of her ear, only to pull out a few strands of her blue hair from the messy bun. She flinches unnoticeably as he leans in in a quick motion and presses his tall nose against her hair.

"Lemons," he smiles as he pulls away. "And what does your pussy taste like?"

"Heaven."

" _Closer_. That movie with Natalie Portman in it?"

"Maybe. I do love movies, and you'll see me everywhere when you watch any movie," she says. "But maybe I've been told."

"By American high schoolers working in a popcorn stand?"

"As if I would let them."

"Then what was Jason?"

"Jason was nothing. I, on the other hand, am a pathological liar."

"So which was a lie?"

"I guess you would never know then," she says. "Unless you watch every single movie in the world, of course."

His eyelashes lazily fall upon his cheeks, once, twice.

"Your lies tell me all I need to know."

"And what is that?"

"That you must be a hell of a lonely soul."

"I try," she says. "Your hands. I like your hands a lot."

He smirks his French smirk, the corner of his tiger lips curling.

"I get that a lot."

"Narcissist."

With perfect curves and edges, shadows and lights reflected on his hands.

"I can't help it," he says. "I'm the obnoxious pig who feasts on Italian pasta and wine."

"I love pasta."

"I make the most extraordinary."

"And you drink the wine?"

"Always."

"I hate you."

She kicks a leg of the chair he's sitting in, an impish smile on her mouth.

She thinks she's in love with him, her adolescent stupidity beats within her heart, flooding her veins with adrenaline, coloring her cheeks.

 **I could write about vampires and werewolves and love triangles, I simply choose not to.**

 **Please leave a review if you could, any constructive criticism is welcome.**


	2. His Bruised Peaches

***slightly more mature content ahead***

She sees him by the paused carousel in the corner of the foodcourt, just like he promised last Friday. His head is bent down, his hair nearly covering his eyes, as he reads a book gently pocketed in his hands.

She tries to slow down as she walks over to him, nearly crashing into him and his _Three Contribution to the Theory of Sex_. He looks up with his deep-set eyes flowing gently underneath the incandescent light.

"Freud?" she frowns, running her nimble fingers along the spine of the book. "Such a tragedy, I can't like you anymore."

"You don't like Freud?"

"I don't know him well enough to go in depth, but," she plops down in the seat next to him. "always pointless, always self-centered. Definition of pretentious."

"More like the definition of what I need to read for college. I major in psychology."

"You're still in college?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Not saying until you tell me your age first."

"That's boring. You need to figure that out yourself," she tosses her unruly blue hair around furiously. "So analyze me."

"I can't profile you based on one meeting, nor do I want to."

"Why not? I'm the most fun to get to know to."

"That's work, and I'm tired."

She blows a strand of her hair, resting on her lips, out of her face. She rests the side of her head on her shoulder, her eyes on his.

"Then tell me this. What is the meaning behind my blue hair?"

"It's just a dyed hair, how would I know?"

"Oh, don't be boring," she exhales, leaning back until the front legs of the chair lift slightly and her head is dangerously dangling in the air, her long hair nearly touching the floor, her throat completely exposed. "You're boring me."

"You're going to get injured," he grabs the seat of the chair, an inch and a half from her bare thigh, and pulls it steadily back on the floor.

"You're boring me."

"Cracked head can hardly be fun," he says. "Trust me, I have six younger brothers."

"Six? Jesus Christ."

"Well, four of them technically are my cousins, but they had lived with us ever since they were four."

He has a certain tone of voice when he explains. Sharp, but gentle, it throbs against her eardrums, biting into her flesh and poisoning her heart.

"Where are you from?"

"I was born in the Netherlands. Moved to Paris when I was six. I just got here in America, two days before I met you."

"You lived in Paris? France?"

"We moved around a bit in France, but yes, mostly in Paris."

There is a certain grace in the way he holds the book in his hand, slightly dangling, his index finger enveloped in between the pages to mark, thumb lying calmly on the paper of the front of the book, the rest of his hand steadying the spine and the back.

"Oh, you must take me some day," she says. "I'm going to leave to Paris soon."

"When?"

"I don't know. Whenever the perfect moment presents itself."

"Can you? Just leave any time you please?"

"I can do anything. I'm just waiting for a certain degree of perfection. A small apartment with a terrace. I'd get a job at an ice cream place, colored vintage with red and blue, with kids running into the shop, the bells on the big bright front door dangling."

There is an honest idiocy, and one that is feigned. She knows that fully well, and hopes he would understand that too. That she is nothing more than an idiotic liar.

"You're going to pay for an apartment in Paris, working in an ice cream store?"

"Oh no, serving ice cream is just for fun. I'm going to get filthy rich before."

"And how would you do that?"

"I'll figure something out. Take me somewhere."

She dyed her hair blue, the night she watched _Blue is the Warmest Color_. She wanted to be a French artist with blue hair. She wasn't an artist, and definitely not French, but she could have blue hair if she wanted. She could have anything if she wanted it enough-spoiled little baby. So she walked to a convenience store at 2am, bought a blue hair dye, and woke up in a splendid mess in the morning.

"Where?"

"Anywhere," she says with a soft smile. "Surprise me."

"I saw a record shop yesterday, if that interests you."

"Are you here every day?"

"You could say that."

"Why?"

"There's no fun in knowing everything," he closes his book completely with a definite thud, and stands up. "Come on, it's not far from here."

The air conditioning dries the air in the mall, with the July heat no where to be found.

"Ask me a question," he says.

He is a narcissistic bastard, ethereal always, dark but peaceful. She stares at him and his request he spitted out as they walk together, wondering how his soul can be so happy. Does his deafening heart ever wake him in the middle of the night, drenched with sweat?

"Why are you here every day?" she asks.

"Not that."

"Do you speak both French and Dutch?"

"I speak several," he says, and she can nearly see him smirk.

"Name them."

"French, Dutch, Spanish, English, German, and a little bit of Italian."

"Huh," her shoes drag over the cold, shiny floor, as do her words. "Okay. Music?"

"Oh, all kinds," he grabs her by her elbow and guides her around a corner. "From Chopin to Sublime to Queen."

"Chopin? Do you play?"

"I've played the piano for sixteen years now."

"What else do you play?"

The record shop is in full view now, the glass door half opened, ice cold air gushing through the gap. It's empty except for an old man organizing the shelves, crackling music in the background.

She doesn't have a record player. She owns a few disks, but most of them are untouched. She believes these shops to be the escapade for all adolescents, the dreamers, too artistic, but too childish. With beating hearts, but no record player.

"Just the piano."

"Do you write music too?"

She walks in slowly, foolishly and emptily enchanted by the pretty retro covers. Only if she knew enough of the music of the sixties, only if she had a vintage soul in her small twenty-first century body.

"Sometimes I do impromptus, but I never write it down or record it."

"That's good. I prefer people who listen to music than those who make it."

"So you don't like all these artists, you wouldn't throw yourself at Guns N' Roses scribbled on your t-shirt right now?"

She stays silent as she picks up a vinyl cover from a large table in the middle of the space, kissing the unfamiliar singer on his lips. Everything is organized compulsively, stacked neatly in boxes fitted on the table.

"Guns N' Roses, they don't bore me," she says. "Other people do."

"Life is full of insignificant boredom," he leans against a wall, one foot slightly more forward than the other, arms crossed. "Hatred is unnecessary."

"I never said I hate them," she turns to him sharply, the corner of her lips tight and shifted upwards in an impish smile. "I don't hate anyone."

"Liar."

"No."

"I bet I can break that record in a day."

He pushes himself off the wall, and walks over to her.

"I don't hate anyone."

"I'm like you, call me exceptional."

She messes around with her hair again, a complete blue mess with flashes of her red nail polish.

"No one's exceptional," she says. "It's either that, or everyone is exceptional."

"But you said you were, last Friday."

He places his hand one of the wooden boxes on the table, the one by her elbow, and inch and a half away from her skin. His index and middle fingers tap on the surface rapidly for two and a half seconds.

"I'm full of shit, haven't you noticed already?"

"Your lies mean more than shit."

She scoffs and jumps like an elf in a quick motion, landing herself on the table, her legs dangling like a nymphette, her wild dark eyes staring straight up at the stranger's. Her shoulders are hoisted a little as her weight shifts onto her palms on the table by her thighs.

"Why do you want me to hate you?" she asks.

"I don't want anyone to hate me. But I do like to be special. And I do like seeing you so flustered. Why are you so flustered?"

She casts her eyes downwards, her throat knotted.

His thumb brushes over the heated skin beneath her eye for a split second, and when she opens her eyes, his hand is back on the top of the box, tapping slower this time.

"Because I want you to fuck me," she says, her complexion as bored as ever.

Then she shakes her dirty sneak off one of her dangling feet. Her bare foot finds his knee covered in jeans, then shuffles upward. The denim scratches softly against her sole, against his leg, and the tapping comes to a stop.

The smell of the dust, his dark eyes, the denim. They last for two blinks of eyes before he grabs her by the ankle, pulls her slightly closer on the table to him, then bends her knee so that her foot detaches from his thigh.

"Do I turn you on?" she cocks her head to the side, resting it on her shoulder. "Even just a little?"

"Maybe," he says. "But I've got much more I'd rather do."

"Like what?"

"Other things."

"Touch me," she murmurs.

He lets go of her ankle, exhaling softly.

"You can always do it yourself."

"You want me to touch myself?" Her sentence ends with a tiny laughter, like a child first walking into a room full of strangers and cocaine.

"I want you to do whatever you please," he says, glancing at the old man in the corner. "Would he mind?"

"No," she whispers as her small hand lifts itself from the table, and finds the hem of her skirt.

His eyes travel to her finger drawing a circle on the skin of her inner thigh, just beneath the hem. Then they flicker up to her eyes again, like a devil in all its divine glory.

"Don't hold back," he says, his head leaning towards her shoulder, hair brushing over her ears, and she can hear all the strands on her skin.

He smooths down her skirt, covering her bare thigh with her hand underneath. Then he sharply backs away, against the wall again, watching with still eyes as she gasps and smiles and pants, her cheeks flushed.

"Harder," he says softly. "Come on, don't hold back."

She obliges, only to find him push her even more.

Her long hair covers half of her face, all over her bright red lips, eyes fluttering close and back open. The air conditioner whirls on, the vinyls thud with every flick of the old man's hand, her sharp inhales and shaky exhales bounce off the concrete walls, and he doesn't make a noise, only deafening with his nonchalant stare.

She is a dreamer, she dreams of Paris. Bruised peaches under blinding sunlight, the smell of freshly cut grass and smoke from far away. Hands around a lover's neck, everything ends in violence.

In rushed steps, he grabs her by her waist and pulls her down, off the table, as a couple walks into the shop, bells jingling at the top of the door.

She smooths down her hair and cools her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"So you speak French," she says, still slightly breathless. "play Chopin, make extraordinary Italian pasta… what else?"

"Less glorious than it sounds."

He lets go of her waist as she steadies her dizzy self on the ground.

"So you don't take vacations to Italy in suits, drink expensive wines talking about films?"

"I do that yes, except I don't wear suits on vacations, at least not all the time."

"Jesus Christ," she murmurs. "Talk films to me."

"Quid pro quo, Clarice. Tell me something about yourself first."

They exit the store together, a shoe in her hand. The mall buzzes with emptiness.

"Hannibal," she smiles. "I prefer Norman Bates."

"Good, you got the quote. You like the horror genre?"

"Yes, but it's difficult to find a good horror movie. _Psycho_ was good. Have you watched _A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night_?"

"No."

"Not many people have. I personally think it's absolutely gorgeous. Although I detest those people who claim it as a feminist movie. Nothing against feminism, but it's purely art, the way I see it."

"Is it necessarily exclusive? _In a decaying society, art, if it is truthful, must also reflect decay._ "

"Is that you?"

"Some writer. Can't remember who."

"That's quite sad. You quote them, yet you can't remember who."

"I think I would rather be remembered for my words than my name."

"Liar."

"Says you. Tell me something about yourself. Something true."

"I need to be going now. The bus leaves in four minutes, and it takes fifteen minutes to get there, eight if I run."

She doesn't like to be a bore.

"Well, goodbye then," he says.

Would he be here next Friday too?

"Goodbye."

 **Thank you for reading, review if you could!**


	3. Her Vanilla Sunshine

He is wearing a plain t-shirt, the third Friday she sees him. She spots the darkness under his eyes as he rubs his hands together stressfully.

The blue in her hair has faded.

"You've come again," he says as she walks towards him with hands in her shorts pocket, the flesh on her neck slightly damp from the sweat.

"I've got nothing better to do," she stands in front of him. "You can entertain me. Is the air conditioning broke?"

"Seems like it. Or maybe they decided to give up on this place."

He goes back to his book on his lap, rubbing his bottom lip with his finger.

There are faint echoes of a child's cries and someone ordering coffee, but it's quiet otherwise, including the carousel with its lights off, the horses immobile. She sighs as she unceremoniously seats herself next to him at their usual dingy table of the food court. He flips a page, and the blue-haired child adjusts and pulls up her knee socks.

She stares at his busily moving eyes. The shadows cast by his eyelashes have an ethereal effect.

"Something wrong?" he asks, with his twisted voice, without looking up from the book.

"No. But you look tired."

She reaches out and touches the semicircles beneath his eye, and when he blinks, his lashes tickle the tip of her finger.

"Just reading."

"Buy me an ice cream."

"An ice cream?"

"Vanilla ice cream in a cone, please."

"And would you like cherries with that?"

She marvels at the way he twists his voice.

"That would be nice, thank you."

He sweeps his hair backwards and stands up in a swift motion.

She waits for him in her seat impatiently. Maybe that was a goodbye. He seems like a faraway memory to her. She takes out her lipstick and slowly colors her lips, her eyes distant, her fingers dull. She puts the lipstick back in the pocket. She closes her eyes, carved into the back of her eyelids the edges and the curves of his forehead down to the tip of his nose. When she opens her eyes again, he is still not in her vision.

She fumbles with her pocket, finding the lipstick again. She rolls it out, bends down, then writes _i love you_ on a leg of the plastic chair she is on. When she lifts her head, he's standing with a snow-white ice cream in his hand, a cherry on top.

"What were you doing?" he asks.

"Thinking."

"Thinking of what?"

"Life, dreams, ice cream, you, Paris, cherries, lemonade," she reachers out for her dessert. "You didn't get anything for yourself?"

"From McDonald's? Why would I torture myself like that?"

"How sweet," she murmurs as she looks down at the ice cream. "Come on, let's go outside."

"It's sizzling outside."

"Then you should have gotten some disgusting McDonald's frozen dessert as well."

"Oh, let it go."

"Only if you come outside with me."

The sunshine blinds her as soon as they are outside. She spins in the warmth, tiny drops of vanilla ice cream dripping and splattering. It melts profusely, drowning her fingers in milky white as she clutches the cone tightly.

"It's melting," he says. "finish it."

"You can't tell me what to do," she says as she takes a long lick. "You have a bite."

Without saying a word, he grabs her wrist, and bends his towering figure to wrap his hungry mouth around the dripping ice cream. His soft curls falls upon her hand, and in the quick second, she rolls her ice-cold tongue up his cheek as he pulls away. She bats her eyes four times, the world spinning, her gaze on his.

He thinks she's still a little girl. Maybe she is. The slightest of the touch tears her skin away, and she is left only with the vulnerable layer covering heart heart. And that heart skips a beat at the first frost of the year, her cheeks flush at the hint of a beauty, her steps too light and too quiet. She is the definition of adolescence, fifteen, dancing with innocence.

He grabs a napkin from his pocket and wipes his vanilla lips and his cheek covered with her. He grabs another and hands it to her.

They walk through the parking lot.

"I had a dream about you. You and Paris."

"What was I doing?"

"I wouldn't know. I was too busy basking in the European glory."

"Paris isn't as glorious as you claim it to be," he says. "It's always full of noise, traffic, rude people, trashed-"

"Oh, hush," she pushes him away softly. "Don't kill my hopes and dreams."

"Lyon is better."

"Paris is iconic."

"Don't put too much meaning into a word. It will disappoint you."

"Doesn't everything?" she drags her sneakers over the asphalt. "I'd rather get disappointed in the city of lights."

They come to a stop in front of a small fountain-small, but surprisingly adorned. He crouches and runs his fingers lightly across the surface of the water, hissing softly.

"I'm going in," she says, making him turn to her.

"No, you're not."

She carelessly takes off her sneakers and socks. The pale skin of her feet stings underneath the unforgiving sun, her toenails painted red.

She lets out a giggle as she tests the water with the tip of her toe. He grabs her gently by her ankle as she stands precariously on the stone ledge surrounding the fountain and the pool of water.

"You're going to get wet."

"I realize that."

She picks up the cherry from the unfinished ice cream, puts it in her mouth, hands him the ice cream, and jumps in. Shuddering in the cool water, she swims around impatiently in the small space.

He sits on the stone ledge, his book on his lap. A knot of cherry stem flies towards him, which he catches. He glances at her, who's floating mindlessly on her back, her white shirt swimming around her small figure.

"Call it a talent," she says.

Beads of water roll off her face, from her soft forehead to her cheeks, dampening her eyelashes. She blinks them away, dizzy underneath the white vanilla sunshine. The taste of cherries tints her tongue, and the water laps against her ears.

He finishes the ice cream in a couple of quick bites.

"For how long are you going to stay like that?"

"As long as I want," she says, then suddenly sits up in the water. "This is nearly as good as Paris."

She swims over to him, folding both arms carefully on the ledge, two inches away from his lap. Her darkened hair sticks all over her face, her nose, her lips, which she attempts to blow away.

He remains silent and unmoving, only his hand flipping the pages.

Her wet fingers find his knee through the thin layer of his trousers, which he gently slaps away. She sighs, resting her chin on the top of her folded hands. Then she presses her palms on the stone surface, and pushes her torso upward, her arms tense and straight, supporting her weight.

"I'm bored," she says in a small voice full of air, like a feverish child.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Kiss me."

Her open mouth slides down on his skin from his jawline, beads of water crawling down his face. He grabs her by her chin, her mouth still open in the air, as he stares at her with hard eyes.

"You need to stop that," he says.

"Stop what?" she murmurs.

Her face still held in place by his unreluctant hand, a small, impish laughter slips from her mouth as she grabs the book from his lap and throws it behind her with a splash.

"Jesus fuck," he shouts as he pushes her away and stands up.

She doesn't stop laughing as she swims over to the book and retrieves it. The pages are already completely soaked, ink running all over in chaos.

"Why the fuck would you…"

He doesn't finish his sentence as he grabs his hair, then lets it go, rubbing his palm furiously against his temple.

"How do you expect me to fuck you when you act like a six year old?"

"But you want to anyway."

"I don't. Snap out of it. Stop acting like a child."

She holds the collapsing book to her chest timidly, her hair sticking to her shoulders as she lifts herself out of the water. Her white shirt hangs around her small frame, and she shudders each time the cold material rubs against her skin.

"Don't be mad," she says, calmer than ever.

"Your lips are turning blue."

She is cold underneath the blazing sun.

"Don't be mad," she whispers this time.

"Are you crying?"

"I'm not crying, _darling_ ," her hard eyes gaze up at his, blinking tiredly. "Take me back to my school, the bus should have left already."

"What do you mean, your school?"

"I live in a boarding school, the school bus has already left, and now I need you to drive me back."

"Let's get you changed first," he sighs. "You can throw away the book."

She tosses the book casually at the asphalt ground, which he spots as she walks away. Without speaking, he walks back, picks it back up, and puts it away in a trash can. She studies him as he does so, the way his shirt stretches over his back when he leans down, the way he walks, decorous and sure, the way his hair gets slightly tousled in the breeze.

When he looks back at her, he tells her to cover herself. She slowly looks down at her soaked white shirt, and crosses her arms over her chest.

"I'll buy you some clothes," he says. "You should wait in the restroom for me."

Her mind briefly touches upon teasing him, but decides not to anger him no more. So she is obedient, quiet, a proper schoolgirl as she waits in a toilet stall, waiting for him.

When he comes back, he shows her a simple white dress from a shopping bag. She nods silently and asks him to wait outside the stall. The cold air hits her back as she removes her clothings.

"This dress falls to my knees," she says. "I'm not a prude."

Her wet clothes are thrown unceremoniously on the dirty, tiled floor, her long hair splattering water everywhere, pale feet bare.

"Don't complain," he replies from the outside. "Can I come in, now?"

She opens the door for him, letting him inside, and he crouches on the floor and starts gathering her garments into the shopping bag.

"I'm low-key in love with you," she says.

Her wet hair is still dripping, her arms wrapped shyly around her body.

"Why only low-key?" he asks without looking up.

"Because I'm in love with everybody."

"Let's get you home."

When she leaves the stall, her sneakers in her hand, she glances at her reflection in the mirror for a second, and decides she likes the new dress after all.

She combs through her damp hair with her fingers as he drives.

"So what about you?" he asks. "Do you have any siblings?"

"Two older sisters."

"How much older?"

"One is twenty-six, another is twenty-eight, but the older one died when I was eight."

"I'm sorry-"

"It's okay. I couldn't care less," she says. "I don't really get attached to people."

"That was your sister," he allows a glance at her, eyebrows arched.

"I don't get attached to people, and sisters are people as well. Or am I wrong?"

"What about your parents?"

"My mom's a typical Korean stay-at-home. My father is from the U.K., and I have absolutely no idea what he does."

"He never told?"

"He must have," she flings her bare feet on the dashboard in a quick, violent motion. "but I probably wasn't paying attention."

The knee-length dress slides down to the top of her thighs, hanging precariously.

Her red pedicure shines in the warmth.

"You're not close with your family."

"I'm not close with anyone," she says, her lips smiling.

He takes quick looks every time the car stops, as if she is an wounded animal that might spring at him any time now.

"Do you speak Korean?"

"Yes," she says. "It's the gate right there. Don't come in, they would want you to show your ID or something, and everyone would think you're a dirty old pedophile taking advantage of a little girl."

And the little girl exits the scene.

 **Thank you for reading & reviewing, I really appreciate it**


	4. His Bright Apples

"You've dyed your hair again?"

"Do you like it?"

"How many times have you bleached it so far?"

She gleefully takes a seat at the table he's taken, a glass of Mountain Dew in her hand. She doesn't care about the last six corpse-like days.

"Four times when I got it blue, none when I had it pink, and then I dyed it back black so I had to bleach twice more."

"Jesus, your hair…"

"But do you like it?"

"I think I'm concerned for your hair," his lips are pursed, but his eyes grin a kitten grin. "The red is quite nice, though. Suits your character."

"Which one?"

"You're not funny.

"Yes I am," she leans forward on her elbows. "In fact, my personas are quite interesting. I'm the most fun girl you'd ever see."

"That's a bold statement."

"Because it's true. Besides, why would you talk to me if not?"

He blinks as if it hurts, she can see his fingers move lethargically but anxiously. His cheeks pale, his usually graceful frame slumped against the back of the plastic chair.

"Because, you… amuse me," he draws out the words slowly.

"And how do I serve as your amusement?"

"It's intriguing, the way I rattle your cage."

"Rattle my cage?" she giggles. "Don't toss metaphors at me like that. And nobody _rattles my cage_."

"Right. And nobody makes you cry, nobody breaks your heart…"

The words are carefully placed into an elegant twist in his voice. The cold, air-conditioned air runs down her spine. His dark complexion wink in her vision and the way his hand is wrapped around the take-out cup makes her mind wonder.

"It's true," she shrugs, then starts blowing bubbles into her Mountain Dew through a straw.

"Is that so?"

Her lips still pursed around the straw, she leans in closer. She can smell his light cologne, leather and bergamot. Her baby breath lands on the tip of his eyelashes, and he slightly tilts his head, eyes focusing on hers. The bubble-blowing fades out as her reflection swims in his dark eyes.

"You don't rattle my cage," she says. "Do _I_ rattle _yours_?"

"I may have my moments," he lazily twirls the straw in his drink. "but I don't let sixteen-year-olds catch me off guard."

"I'm fifteen."

He leans back further into his chair, his eyes now fixed on the straw and the drink. Her grin is a fairy grin, her eyes twinkle with amusement.

"Did I catch you off guard now?"

"Why would you think that?" he says, slowly looking up to her, his torso leaned back against the chair, broad and tired.

"Because I'm jailbait."

"Why would I care?"

"Because you're a dirty old pervert," she laughs. "Did I catch you off guard?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Stop," he rubs the bottom of his palm against his temple.

"Don't be disappointing," she pulls back with a grimace on her face.

Frustrated, she shoves the straw deep in between the ice cubes. His exhaustion makes her anxious. Is he tired of her? Is he bored of her?

Her mind searches for something to tie him to her, something too seductive for this fifteen-year-old, but it's not as easy as it used to be. She chokes on her words, the clump in the back of her throat burns at the faintest scent of his cologne.

"I have to leave early today," he says.

She thinks about dying, this dramatic little girl. She's supposed to be the one to leave.

"Why is that?" she gently drags the heel of her shoes, pressing against the floor.

"Reasons."

"What reasons?"

"Why should I tell you?"

She senses amusement by the end of his question despite his coldness, his exhaustion.

"Because I want to know," she says.

"You can't always get what you want. That's what you said, the first time we met."

Her filthy fingers reach into her drink to grab a giant ice cube, then place it on her tongue.

"I also said," she giggles as she tries her best to form the words with her mouth full. "that you can if you want it enough."

"How much do you want to know, then?"

"Don't be stupid. I couldn't care less."

"You're all over the place," he says. "You confuse me."

"But you love it."

Her smile is faded now, and she rests her cheek on the top of the table, right by the spot where his hand is resting on. Her breath is warm against his skin.

"No, it exhausts me."

The ice cube is now into pieces, melting oh so swiftly on her sizzling tongue.

"Take it back," she says, after a moment of silence.

"Take what back?"

"Why weren't you here last Friday?"

"What?"

"Tell me you love me."

"What-why?"

She can't handle not being answered, so her tiny little demands slip out between her small lips as he looks at her like that, like he is never listening.

"Because I want to hear it."

She kicks a leg of his chair underneath the table like the little baby she is. It stings and she rubs her bare toe indiscreetly against his khakis-clad ankle, lips curling into a smile.

"I don't lie unless I have to," he says.

"You have to. Now."

She presses the tip of her toe against his bare skin after working her way beneath his trousers.

"You should put your shoes on. We're in public."

"It's Wendy's. Everyone's disgusting here."

Nonetheless, she pushes his ankle away and slips her foot-just the one-back into her sneakers. Her elbows on the wobbly table, she rests her chin on her palms, lifts her head for a moment to pull the chair closer in, her chin back on her hands, then goes back to blowing bubbles.

"Say it."

"No."

"Why do you have to be so difficult?"

"It's sacred to me."

"Sometimes there is sanctity even to lies."

"And do you?"

She wonders why he is so tired today. She thinks she would like to reach her hand across the table, over the cold, damp fries and the untouched drink of his, and brush his overgrown hair off his forehead. We all want to die someday.

"Do I what?" she asks.

"Love me?"

"No."

"I'll throw this away."

He should be a professional cleaner. His fingers lightly touch upon the insignificant leftovers on the table-exceptionally elegant-and gather them all on the tray. She stands up as he does, and follows him to the trash can like a lost puppy she is.

"I have to take you back now."

"No."

"You are quite a hypocrite. You want me to say that I love you, yet you say you don't love me."

"I don't love anyone," I say. "No need for disappointment.

"I'm not disappointed. Simply tired."

"I don't want to go back to school."

"I don't think you get to decide."

"Then you do, you decide. Kidnap me. _Murder me_."

"I would rather not spend the rest of my life in jail."

"You're cruel."

"Sometimes, maybe."

She grabs both of his hands and wraps them around her neck-tighter than he could have imagined as his eyebrows shoot upward. But his fingers-perhaps unconsciously-bite deep into her burning flesh without warning and her eyes flutter close.

"Tell me you love me," I let out a whisper. "I'm your favorite girl."

Before he can say what he always says, she gets on her tiptoes, her neck still in his hold, and presses her lips against his for a split second. He grabs her shoulders and sets her back fully on her feet, then walks her to his car. His lips tasted like bright apples under sunshine.

* * *

He's not by the carousel, the next Friday.

She refuses to eat for four days.

 **I'm so very grateful for the reviews. Any constructive criticism is welcome. Thank you for reading.**


	5. Her Adolescent Heart

His eyes are bruised with exhaustion.

It's another Friday afternoon. They are seated in a picnic table at the entrance of the mall. The summer heat sizzles in the space between them, he blinks lazily, and she rests the side of her head on the plastic table.

"Would you miss me when I'm gone?" she asks.

She's scared of what comes after.

What comes after this madness? This madness in her head like a dizzy summer day. Is it simply her adolescent heart beating for joy, her cheeks flushing from no more than her virgin dreams? Or does she need to make him hers, should she grab him and kiss him before he's gone, out of her life?

But she knows he's not hers.

"What do you mean?"

His eyes remain on a chubby pigeon feasting on garbage, even as he speaks.

She knows the way he looks at her, as if he's not looking at all. As if she is only an amusement to help him bear with the lonely days-he is always lonely, mind you, he is always waiting, lonely in the lonely mall of a sleepy town.

It suits her. She needs his loneliness, she's the only distraction he's got. And when he's finally rid of it, she would beg on her knees, ask him to stay. _Please don't leave me with your loneliness._

But she has to be the one that leaves.

"If I were to disappear one day," she says. "for absolutely no reason at all, would you miss me? Would you notice that I'm gone?"

"Why would you disappear?"

'Because, my darling,' she thinks. 'I am scared as fuck.'

Her tiny fingers tremble, she's scared she won't ever leave, even when she feels the unseen goodbye already.

"Why would you disappear?" he repeats, this time looking at her.

"Because shit happens."

"Got anything in mind?"

She wants to make him cry. No, she wants him to make her cry.

"Not today," she says, her red hair caught between her lips, slightly damp from the moisture in the air. "But no one knows what would happen tomorrow."

"What would happen tomorrow?"

"I just told you. No one knows."

"Don't bore me," he says, and her eyes shoot up to his, choking in disbelief.

"You're psycho."

The childish whine is gone from her voice, only pain left in a whisper. He notices and rubs his eyes frustratingly.

"Sadistic bastard," she hisses, then sighs in regret. "Oh, never mind. I'm just a fucking disappointment."

"Don't be passive aggressive."

A tight ball forms in the back of her throat, her heart clenches once, twice, and her entire ribcage shudders. He was born to be a monster, she sees that.

He pulls out a cigarette and places it in between his lips, delicate and sad. His eyebrows curve into a frown as he fumbles with the lighter, and he inhales sharply as it is finally lit. Smoke trails around his shadowy figure in the damp afternoon.

The sunshine girl scowls.

"I don't think you're allowed to smoke here."

"I don't see a sign. Besides," he clears the smoke from in front of her face. "you're the rebel, not me. I'll be back when I'm finished."

He stands up to leave, but she grabs him by his hand, his watch cool against her gentle fingers.

"I don't mind the smoke," she says. "Stay."

She takes the cigarette from in between his lips, then places it between her own, looking up at him with her Bambi eyes. She coughs little baby coughs through the smoke as it fills her lungs, her vision blurry.

What happened to them? What happened so that all they have now is these moments of silence? Is he so bored of her now? It used to be easy for her to get the attention she demands. She puts on fishnet tights, or a white sundress, she flirts with the bad boys on the motorcycle, or giggles in front of her teachers. She's told everyone that she's the most interesting person ever. He's the only one who never assured her that yes, yes she is the most fun to be around, exceptional.

Her eyebrows furrow in annoyance and she drops the cigarette to the ground, then grabs him by his neck to bring him down for a kiss. Her legs shake slightly on her tiptoes, her lips urgent against his unrelenting ones.

"Kiss me back," she says, but pushes him away rather violently. "You know you like it when I'm like this."

Her hands find his neck again, this time more gentle, just above his shoulders. The top of her head barely reaches his vision this close.

Her eyelids flutter close as she slowly drowns in his breath, her head slightly rocking forward.

"I don't think I care as much as you seem to think I do," he breaks the silence. "But I am indeed bored."

She digs the heel of her shoe into the dirt, swallowing a hot lump.

"Oh, don't make me cry," she whispers.

"I'm not trying to."

"You're breaking my heart."

"I thought no one broke your heart."

She looks down at her feet, feeling as if she is melting under the hot sun, collapsing in front of him.

"I lied," she says. "Everyone breaks my heart."

It's only when he hears her shuddering inhale that he finally understands how he has indeed, broke a child's heart.

She pushes away from him just as he tries to grab her. An apology slips out from his mouth, but she simply shakes her head and smiles.

"Oh, shut up," she says, casually blinking away the tears.

He's a psychopath, she thinks. Charming and deadly.

"Do you eat sushi?" he asks.

"Never tried it."

"Try it with me, next Friday."

And she's a sucker for both.


End file.
